Chapter One
London, England
1302
Joanie Picard swept the silk robe from her mistress’s shoulders. Diana Faintree, a famed London beauty and singer, dressed in rich fabrics and vibrant hues, but she was as common as Joanie — both born to poverty, both fighting each day to survive.
Frowning, Joanie lifted Diana’s arm and inspected the red, horizontal stripes marring the fine skin below her shoulder — thick, evenly spaced markings left behind like a cruel keepsake from their master’s biting fingers.
“Leave them for now,” Diana said, keeping her eyes averted. “The morning grows old, like me, and we’ve still much to do.”
Joanie nodded and reached for the pumice stone. She ran her thumb across the abrasive, porous surface and winced. She loathed what would happen next. Glancing at Diana’s weary face, she couldn’t help but suggest, “Where it isn’t bruised, your skin is already so soft. Why don’t we skip the stone?”
“You already know my answer,” Diana said, her lips curving in a soft smile. “But I love you for trying. Go on,” she said, the last words at a whisper.
Joanie took a deep breath. Starting at Diana’s toes and working her way up her long leg, she set to work scouring Diana’s skin with the stone in small, circular motions.
“You’re too gentle,” Diana said, gritting her teeth.
Joanie looked up at her. “You are not well. I do not wish to hurt you.”
A forced smile stretched Diana’s lips wide. “I’m fine. You worry too much.” She shifted her gaze away from Joanie’s. “Do it right.”
Joanie looked longingly at the window and imagined throwing back the shutters and hurling the hateful stone beyond the palace walls. She tightened her grip around it. If only she could crush it to dust, but then her fingers fell slack, the stone neither soaring through the air nor crumbling to the floor. It filled her palm, and it was just as well — Diana would only procure another for her routine ablutions. For nearly five years, Joanie had served as Diana’s maid, and in all that time, they had never skipped her weekly rigorous beauty treatments — despite any new bruises received at the hands of their master or her failing health. Pressing her lips together in a grim line, Joanie gripped Diana’s thigh and continued scrubbing until her skin shone red.
“Have the others faded?” Diana asked when Joanie scooted on her knees around to Diana’s backside. Angry bruises in varying shades of red, brown, and yellow marred her back, buttock, and thighs.
“A little,” Joanie said, setting the stone aside. She reached into a basket of tins and pouches filled with various creams, ointments and powders. She took up the comfrey ointment. She scooped a great dollop of the greasy balm, then dotted it over Diana’s bruises before gently rubbing the soothing ointment into her skin.
“Geoffrey was in a particularly foul mood last night,” Diana murmured.
Joanie didn’t respond. When was the master not in a foul mood?
“Look at me,” Diana entreated her.
Joanie did as she was bidden.
“Your interference must stop. He was vexed with me, not you. He never would have touched you had you not stepped in front of me.”
Joanie lowered her gaze and continued applying the balm. “You cannot ask me to stand idly by while he beats you.” Then she stopped rubbing and looked up, locking eyes with her mistress once more. “I will not do that,” she avowed through gritted teeth.
“Joanie—” Diana began, but then a deep, wet cough stole her words and her breath. Her whole body jerked as if under attack from the inside out. Joanie jumped to her feet and wrapped her arms around Diana to support her. When at last the coughing ceased and Diana caught her breath, she wiped at her eyes and smiled weakly at Joanie. “Thank you,” she rasped. Then she slowly reached out a trembling hand toward the hem of Joanie’s tunic. “How do your gifts from our master fare?”
Diana’s weakened state broke Joanie’s heart. Shaking her head, she implored, “Do not worry for me. Mine always heal quickly.” Then she scooped more salve and spread it over the fresh fingerprints on Diana’s arm. “You must save your strength. I’m nearly finished, then you can get into the bath.” Joanie glanced at the tub in front of the hearth. Steam curled in ghostly ribbons from the oily surface.
“It will do me good. I know it will,” Diana said. Then she smiled at Joanie. “I see your worry. It is etched on your dear face, visible even beneath the grime you refuse to let me help scrub away. This cough will pass.”
Joanie frowned. “I’m only permitted to bathe once a fortnight. I do not fancy being clean enough to attract the master’s fury.” She looked away before continuing in a gentle voice. “The cough is persisting this time.”
“I know,” Diana said.
The truth hung in the air between them for a moment like an ominous cloud, but Diana chased the storm away with her bright voice. “Anyway, you’ve always managed to cure me in the past.”
Joanie scanned Diana’s body. Unlike Joanie, who was shorter and slimly built, Diana had always enjoyed lush, full curves that drove men wild. But her cough had worsened over the last fortnight, and her body had begun to waste away. Joanie fought to keep her concern from showing. “The next time Simon checks in on us, I am going to have him bring up another meal for you.”
Diana shook her head. “I am still full after breaking our fast. I couldn’t possibly eat again so soon.”
“You will if you want to be stronger.” Joanie wrapped her arm around Diana’s waist. “Let me help you into the bath.”
“Wait,” Diana said.
Joanie stood still and looked at her expectantly.
“Could I have a mirror?”
Nodding, Joanie reached for the small, gilded compact on Diana’s bedside table and gave it to her. Diana held the glass up, scrutinizing her features. She pulled at the skin beneath her eyes and the soft lines framing her mouth. “I’m a disgrace.”
Joanie glanced up from the beauty mask she was mixing. “You are the most beautiful woman in London.”
Diana’s expression softened. “And you are forever my champion, even when I battle myself.” Then she turned back and continued studying her own reflection. “I was the most beautiful woman in London. But age is robbing me of the title all too soon. That is what happens when you turn thirty.”
“You are not yet thirty.”
“No, but I am eight and twenty.” Diana frowned again at what she saw in the mirror. “I may as well be a hundred.” With a sigh, she set the compact down. "At nineteen, Joanie, you can hardly understand.” Then she slid the robe from her shoulders and continued in a brighter voice. “Have you mixed the porridge mask?”
Joanie nodded, relieved for the change in subject. “Let’s get you into the tub first.” She helped Diana step into the steamy water. Joanie had poured liberal amounts of chamomile and lavender oils into the bath to soothe Diana’s bruises, and the heady scents wafted off the surface as the water rose to make room for her battle-wearied body. Diana groaned when she eased back. Joanie smiled, realizing by the contented look on Diana’s face that she voiced her pleasure rather than discomfort. Picking up the clay dish filled with a mixture of roughly cut oats and heavy cream, she smoothed a thick layer onto Diana’s upturned face.
“What will I do when my looks finally go, Joanie? Geoffrey will turn me out.”
Flashes of the master’s hulking fists and cruel eyes raced through Joanie’s mind, chasing her smile away. “Would that really be so awful?”
Diana opened her eyes and gave Joanie a hard look. “There are worse pains than fist or lash. Hunger. Cold. They are the real demons.” Her face softened. “I know you have suffered greatly at the hands of your masters and your father before he sold you. But, Joanie…” Diana shifted her gaze but not before Joanie saw the sudden sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. “You have never known true hunger or cold. Don’t ever fool yourself into thinking you’d be better off somewhere else.” Diana turned back to look at her. Her tears were gone, and her eyes shone clear and strong. “Our master is rich.” She lifted a dripping hand from the water and made a sweeping gesture. “Look at this room, at the warm bed we share and in the king’s palace, no less. We are the lucky ones, Joanie. Out there, the streets are full of people a breath away from death who would withstand any number of abuses to have what we possess.”
Joanie shifted her gaze away from Diana’s stubborn resolve wondering whether her friend was right. Were they, indeed, better off with the master? More than once, she had asked Diana to run away with her, but she had always refused and warned Joanie not to dream beyond survival. But Joanie couldn’t help wondering — was it really a choice between beatings and abuse or starvation and freezing? Couldn’t there be another life for them — one without the constant threat of pain or death? She dipped her finger into a pot of honey and willow oil and worked the mixture into her hands before gently weaving her fingers through Diana’s wet hair.
Her mistress sighed as her elbows came up on the sides of the tub. “That feels so good. I’ve had such a headache.”
“You should have told me sooner,” Joanie scolded. Then she cupped her hand and closed her eyes, imagining a ball of light at rest in her palm. Curving her palm over Diana’s forehead, she closed her eyes and took deep, slow breaths and imagined heat radiated from the light in her hand, surrounding Diana’s pain. She stayed there for a long while, confronting the darkness with her healing touch.
Diana sighed. “You’re an angel.”
Joanie opened her eyes. “You don’t believe in angels.”
Diana smiled. “For the moment I do.”
“Then the pain’s gone. Good,” Joanie said, happy to have alleviated at least a little of Diana’s suffering. She wrapped her fingers around the handle of a small copper pot and dipped it in the bath water to rinse Diana’s hair. But a sharp rapping on the door startled her, and she dropped the handle, losing the pot beneath the surface. Jumping to her feet, she came around the screen that shielded her mistress, just as a barrel-chested man of great height with thinning brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and a red nose from too much ale walked into the room.
Joanie expelled the breath she’d been holding. “Thank God it’s you, Simon.”
Simon was their master’s manservant. To most people, he was gruff and hard — full of bite, but beneath his coarse surface, hid a gentleness only shown to Diana and thus to Joanie by default.
He motioned toward the screen and mouthed the words, how is she?
Lips pressed into a thin line, Joanie only shook her head in answer.
“Damn it,” Simon cursed.
Straightaway, Joanie’s heart started to pound. “What is it?” she whispered. Then she heard the water slosh and knew Diana had sat up.
“Is that Simon? Is something wrong?”
His powerful shoulders sagged. Sad eyes met Joanie’s. “Geoffrey wants you in the hall tonight,” he said loud enough for Diana to hear.
Joanie’s eyes widened. “But tonight is Anabel’s night to entertain.”
Simon put his hand up, silencing her protest. “She doesn’t have to perform, but he insists she attend the evening meal and stay for the entertainment following.”
Water sloshed again. Joanie hurried around the screen.
“I must get out,” Diana said, struggling to stand. “My hair will never dry in time. And my gown still needs freshening. Joanie, what will I — ”
Joanie’s chest tightened at the sound of Diana’s sudden cough, which racked her shoulders. She white-knuckled the sides of the tub to keep her face out of the water. Joanie dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around Diana, supporting her. Wet hacking subsided into strangled wheezing and finally gasps for air. When, at last, the cough ran its course, Diana turned her face up to look at Joanie. Joanie’s heart ached at the sight of her red, tear-streaked face and wide, terrified green eyes. She trembled in Joanie’s arms. “Let’s get you dry,” Joanie said, her voice soothing. She helped Diana step from the tub, then dried her off and swept her robe around her shoulders.
“She is decent,” Joanie called. “I need your help, Simon.”
Simon appeared an instant later, his face drained of color. He scooped Diana into his arms.
“Simon’s got you.” Joanie heard him whisper.
Joanie hurried around the screen and rushed to the bed, grabbing pillows and blankets, which she then arranged near the hearth. “Lay her down and fan her hair out so it dries,” she told him. Then she hurried to the table and seized a small pouch of mustard powder from a basket, which she quickly mixed with flour, warm water from the bath, and vinegar. Then she knelt beside Diana.
“Make sure she is ready,” Simon said to Joanie.
She nodded and carried on mixing the mustard paste while she watched Simon gently stroke Diana’s cheek with the back of his fingers. Then he stood and strode from the room.
Joanie gave the thick paste a final stir. Then she opened Diana’s robe, exposing her chest.
“No,” her mistress said, waving her away. “I will stink. Just lay your hands on me. Your touch alone has healed me before.”
Joanie shook her head. “I promise it will wash away, and lavender oil will hide the smell. It will hopefully stave off another attack for some time, allowing you to regain your strength.”
Diana closed her eyes. “Fine, but just a thin layer. Then you must ready my face.”
Joanie thickly coated her chest with the foul-smelling mixture, despite her protests. Then she set to work combining a fine white power with vinegar and egg white. Using a bristly brush, she made sweeping strokes across Diana’s mottled complexion, until it gleamed white. Then she dabbed soft pink rouge on the apples of both her cheeks. Taking a step back, she scrutinized Diana’s appearance.
Her brows were plucked to thin, pale crescent moons. Her hair cascaded across the floor in thick waves and shone almost white, it was so blond. She did not require onion skins or lemon juice to lighten the color, unlike so many of the women at court, whose dull hair looked more orange than blond as a result of their efforts. Everything about Diana was naturally built to seduce, from her curvy figure to the throaty tone of her voice. And when she sang, men stopped and stared with hungry eyes. Joanie chewed her lip as she impatiently waited for her mistress’s hair to dry.
Simon returned a few hours later. “That will have to do,” he said, his voice strained. “The hour for supper is almost here.”
He gently helped Diana to her feet and wrapped his arm around her waist.
“No,” she said, not unkindly. “I can manage.”
Tears stung Joanie’s eyes as she watched her mistress gracefully cross the room to sit at her table where a gilded mirror reflected her ethereal beauty. Knowing the pain she must have felt tore at Joanie’s heart, although Diana let none of it show.
Joanie crossed the room and took hold of Diana’s comb and pulled her long bangs back to lengthen her brow. When her hair was pinned in place, she arranged the sides so that golden waves spilled over Diana’s shoulders past her waist. Then she helped her dress.
“Will Geoffrey approve?” Diana asked nervously, smoothing her hands over the intricately embroidered bodice of her pale green tunic.
Joanie doubted anyone could ever fully meet with the master’s approval. Still, Diana’s beauty was unmatched regardless of the passing of time. “You look stunning. Mind you do not overdo it. Hold your tongue so that you do not strain your voice. Remember, you have to perform tomorrow night.”
Diana nodded. “I will remember. I am hoping to get away as soon as I can.”
Simon filled the doorway with his large frame. “It is time.”
Diana stood and kissed Joanie on the cheek before she crossed the room and left on Simon’s arm.
Joanie stared at the closed door for a moment. Then she numbly turned and stiffly sat in Diana’s seat and looked at her own reflection in the mirror. Her greasy black hair hung limply past her shoulders. Her brown eyes looked back at her, dull, void of joy and life. As ever, her face was hidden beneath a layer of dirt and grime. Her master didn’t allow her a bath of her own. None of the ointments, oils, or perfumes on the table were for her use. She wore the same worn, tattered tunic every day. Once a fortnight, she was permitted to wash herself and her clothing in Diana’s used bath water. Not for her own benefit or health, but only so that the master didn’t have to smell her. Geoffrey Mercer’s cruel, twisted smiled came to the fore of her mind. Unlike Diana, she at least did not have to face him every day. Diana went to his room to perform her duties as leman. But whenever he did enter their room, it always meant the worst. The sound of his footfalls and that of his guard, who followed him everywhere, would echo through the stone corridor like thunder. A shiver shot up Joanie’s spine just thinking about the din of their master’s approach. She closed her eyes. Her heart pounded. Her breaths came short.
“Help us,” she whispered to no one, for who would hear the pleas of someone as insignificant as she?
Joanie whirled away from the sad creature she saw in the mirror, stood up and started to clean the room. She would keep moving, keep doing, despite her fatigue. She couldn’t stop. If she did, she would be forced to face the truth about Diana who was her one light in the dark. Her beloved mistress’s health had been failing for months, but she had managed with Joanie’s help. Still, the past fortnight had taken its toll.
“No,” she said out loud and fought back her tears.
After all, Diana continued to fight. She carried on, bravely surviving, and so would Joanie. That is what life had always been. It was what life would always be — a desperate fight for survival.
Here is the link to keep reading ~
(Highland Outlaws, Book 1)
Freedom is not won…it is stolen
Jack MacVie and his brother are thieves, robbing English nobles on the road north into Scotland. They’re about to attack the Redesdale carriage when another band of villains, after more than Lady Redesdale’s coin, sweeps down and steals their prize. Despite his hatred for the English, Jack’s conscience forces him to kidnap the lady to save her life.
In the aftermath of the Berwick massacre, Lady Isabella Redesdale’s world is shattered. Her mother is dead, her father lost to grief, and she’s risking it all, journeying north into war-torn Scotland to be with her sister.
Although they come from different worlds, Jack and Isabella are more alike than they first realize. They both crave freedom from war and despair, but in a world where kings reign and birth dictates one’s station, freedom is not won, it is stolen.
(Highland Outlaws, Book 1)
He is an outlaw and the only man she can trust.
Quinn is a Scottish rebel and outlaw to the crown--not the sort of man for a proper English lady. But when Lady Catarina is accused of a horrific crime and is forced to flee Ravensworth castle for her life, the only man she can trust is the one man who believes she is innocent, Quinn MacVie.
Join Quinn and Catarina as they disappear into the wilds of the Scottish Highlands where danger follows at their heels and desire burns in their hearts.
Other Books by Lily Baldwin
The Isle of Mull Series
Three generations of Highland Brides and the warriors whose hearts they capture.
Isle of Mull, Scotland 1263
She will protect her identity with her very life if necessary. Who will protect her from herself?
Shoney's lightning speed with a bow captures Ronan by surprise, and their chance meeting ends with him lying unconscious at the bottom of a ravine.
When he awakens, he cannot rid his mind of her startling beauty, her valor, or the secret fear he glimpsed in her steel eyes. He vows to find her, but as the mysteries of her identity unfold, his courage and heart are tested as never before.
An excerpt from To Bewitch a Highlander, Isle of Mull Series, Book 1
Chapter 1
Isle of Mull, Scotland
1263
Ronan motioned for the small band of warriors behind him to halt.
“We are on a fool’s hunt, Ronan,” Aidan whispered.
Ronan cast Aidan a scowl that would have sent most men to their knees. Aidan stood his ground, but nodded to let Ronan know he understood the warning. On the battlefield, Aidan was one of Ronan’s fiercest warriors, but away from the fray, he was easily bored and distracted. More often than not, it was women who distracted and later bored him, but, evidently, their latest mission lacked enough dangerous enticements to hold his interest. Tedium, however, was no excuse for carelessness. Aidan was beginning to try Ronan’s limited patience. If his complaints continued, Ronan would personally tie him to a tree and use him as bait to ensnare the trespassers.
Ronan signaled for the men to split up, but motioned for Aidan to follow him. The last thing he wanted at that moment was to endure any more of Aidan’s nagging, but the only way to ensure he stayed out of trouble was to keep him close.
“Ronan, ‘tis barely spring”, Aidan whispered. “The MacLean is an idiot to be sure, but he’s not daft enough to think he might conceal his warriors in the forest this time of year.”
“Enough”, Ronan growled. He had to think, a simple task made harder owing to Aidan’s incessant prattling in his ear.
Despite hours of searching they had uncovered no sign of the enemy. He hated to admit it, but Aidan was right. Springtime arrived on the wings of migrating birds, but despite the warm breeze, the trees had yet to fill with leaves. Madness alone would have informed a command to lead the MacLeans into the wood with nothing better than bramble and bare limbs behind which to seek cover, and although they were no account thieves, their chieftain was not entirely deprived of sense. Surely, the brigand, Angus MacLean, knew better. Then again, Angus was aware the MacKinnon clan had twice the warriors and stores, but he was still foolhardy enough to order the occasional raid. No, danger was not imminent, but this in no way excused Aidan's reckless behavior.
“The cottars saw a flash of the MacLean tartan through the trees. Our laird ordered us to flush them out. Instead of griping over being pulled away from Anna’s skirts, why don’t you keep alert and find me a few MacLeans. Then we can go home.”
“Get down”, Aidan hissed as he dove to the ground.
Ronan did not hesitate. He lunged behind a tree, but as he peered around the trunk he saw nothing to warrant an alarm. He raised a quizzical brow at Aidan.
“’Tis the Witch”, he whispered, pointing toward a copse of trees.
Amid a slender cluster of birch trees adjacent the forest road stood the Witch of Dervaig. The folds of her tattered and filth covered robes, draped over her bent and crooked form, sent shivers up his spine. The hood of her cloak, always pulled low over her face, surely concealed hideous deformities and festering boils. Ronan exhaled with relief as she hobbled out onto the road.
“I dreamt as a lad that she captured me here in the wood”, Aidan said. “I struggled to break away from her hold as her hood fell back, revealing a wart covered, twisted nose and an evil toothless grin,” he grimaced with disgust.
“We’ve naught to fear. She is gone now”, Ronan said as he stood, but he shivered as a chill swept through him, no doubt caused by the icy current of her black heart.
“God’s blood”, Aidan swore, “why does she not die already? Is she to haunt our island for another three hundred years?”
“The devil owns her soul. She may plague Mull for all eternity”, Ronan replied. “Forget the Witch. We’ve work to do.”
“What now?” Aidan asked.
Ronan expelled a long breath. “I’m beginning to agree with you, Aidan. This is a great waste of time. But the laird is not interested in our opinions. Judgments do not safeguard our stores. ‘Tis done with the lives of men. We cannot return to Gribun until every patch of forest is searched.”
“You’re beginning to sound like your father”, Aidan said, “which of course means my future is grim. When you become chieftain one day all my fun ends.”
“Why?” Ronan asked, “You won’t be laird.”
“No, but I will be your second.”
“Saints preserve us, Aidan, if you are ever my second”, Ronan scoffed.
“Jest if you wish, but you trust no one as well as me.”
“Aye, I trust you all right. I trust you will be the first to complain.”
Ronan made light of Aidan’s claim, but it struck truth. He had many fine warriors under his command, but Aidan was his oldest friend. His loyalty never wavered, and he understood better than anyone how to calm Ronan’s ire once it raged out of control. Although during times of peace, Aidan drove him to temper more than anyone else.
“What say you to splitting up? We’ll cover more ground”, Aidan suggested.
Ronan hesitated at first but then agreed. He was as anxious to return home as his friend but for different reasons. There was no maid waiting for him back at Gribun but rather a mountain of duties, which promised to keep him busy until he arrived in the hereafter. He looked to Aidan who was awaiting his command.
“Cut across the road, but first make sure the hag is not lingering nearby. Follow the river. Stay low and alert. If you find nothing by the time the sun is low in the sky, meet me near the forest edge on the north side.”
Aidan started to walk toward the road, but Ronan grabbed hold of his arm and said, “I know you think this mission is a heap of dung, but do not be careless.”
Aidan nodded his consent. Ronan’s eyes narrowed as his stare penetrated his friend’s perpetually jaunty gaze.
“Aidan, you are a MacKinnon warrior, and your people depend on you.”
“I will be thorough and cautious. I assure you, Ronan.”
“Go, my friend, and fear not, war with the Norse is at hand. You will be back on the battlefield soon enough.”
“I’m counting on it. ‘Tis the only way I am going to escape Anna’s skirts without marriage”, Aidan said with a wink and dashed through the trees.
Ronan watched him peer beyond a tall oak to first check for the Witch. He signaled the road was clear, and then he was gone.
He wondered what it would be like to have his biggest concern be whether to marry his latest conquest. He shook his head as he turned and headed deeper into the thicket. The brambles, although bereft of leaves, possessed sharp spines, but he paid little heed to the pricks that snagged his exposed calves and tugged at the plaid hanging just below his knees as he scouted his surroundings.
A branch snapped behind him. Someone or something was approaching. He dropped to one knee and reached behind his shoulder to grasp the hilt of his sword from the scabbard strapped to his back. The nearby trees and bramble were still, and he heard naught but his own breathing.
He waited, poised and listening. His patience was rewarded as the rustle of twig and branch renewed and drew closer. Then a red deer became visible through the bramble. It was tall with proud antlers. And although lean from the winter months, its meat would be a welcome addition to their stores. Wet leaves newly released from their snowy grave clung to its hooves as it moved cautiously through the forest. Ronan grinned at his luck. He was hunched downwind from his prey, and, as yet, he had not been detected. At least something would come of their trek into the wood.
He cursed the absence of his bow, and his sword would be useless against the speed of a deer, but the sizable dirk tied to his thigh beneath his plaid might prove sufficient. If he could just get close enough, the stag would be his with one throw. Ronan looked around at the bare trees and cursed under his breath. He was the largest of the MacKinnons but for Dugald. Someone else should have been given this opportunity, someone smaller. Even Dugald, who somehow managed to maneuver his bulk like a man half his size, was better suited for the job.
Ronan stole between the trees, keeping the deer in sight as he did his best to stay low and sidle through the bushes for extra coverage.
“God’s blood”, he swore as he squeezed through a particularly tight cluster.
Ordinarily, he found his great height and breadth to be an advantage. On the battlefield, his size instilled immediate fear. As the future laird of the MacKinnon, it encouraged the cooperation of his men as did his rather infamous temper, but seldom were they unruly. The MacKinnons were indeed a loving and loyal clan, to each other and to Nathair, Ronan’s father. He was a fair and competent laird but formidable when necessary.
Following at a distance, he watched the deer walk toward the shallow ravine at the forest’s center. It must have been drawn to the sweet grass, which grew in the space between where the tree line ended and the abyss began. He grinned. The buck was unknowingly walking into the perfect trap. Once at the edge, it would have no place to run but down giving him a clean shot. The deer advanced further. It was almost to the ravine. He silently cut to the edge and tucked himself behind one of the larger trees. Down he peered, observing the depth to be shallower than he remembered. It was nigh the length of three men to the bottom. The fall would not kill someone, but the jagged rocks littering the ravine floor might.
The buck cleared the tree line and began nibbling the tender grasses. Its nose and eyes showed the feast complete deference, but its ears bristled, ever alert for danger’s approach. He was a prize to be sure. Reaching his hand beneath the pleats of his kilt, he eased his dirk from its narrow scabbard. Already the sun dipped behind the trees. He needed to hurry. It was almost time to meet his men. He shifted his grip so the point of the blade was pressed between his thumb and forefinger. He eased his arm back, took aim, and started to launch the dirk, but the steel never left his fingertips. A movement to his left captured his attention. In an instant, his gaze shifted and he redirected his deadly aim toward the unknown distraction. But when he saw what snaked his concentration away from the stag he froze not believing his own eyes.
Not ten strides away stood a slip of a girl with radiant golden hair, which shone even in the dim forest light. The string of a narrow and intricately carved bow was pulled taught against her cheek, arrow at the ready, aimed at his prize. And as far as he could tell, she did not realize he was there.
She had to be one of the fair folk, but he didn’t know whether she was a threat. As though she sensed his gaze, her head turned, and their eyes met. Then with lightning speed, the girl shifted her weapon, and he stared at the lethal tip of her arrow and into wide eyes, which glinted like steel swords. He jerked back, his footing lost. Twisting to the side, he tried to regain his balance, but the ground at the edge crumbled beneath his weight, pulling him over the brink. As he fell, his eyes connected once more with the now terror-filled gaze of the girl who screamed as he plunged downward. He landed with a thud, and a sharp pain cut through his skull as the world turned black. ~ Click to continue reading
Isle of Mull, Scotland 1296
A STORM IS COMING...
Although she faces tragic loss, Brenna will never succumb to grief or fear, nor will she surrender to the one man she despises--the very man who now has the power to control her destiny. Like the storms that rage unchecked over the moors, her fury is about to be unleashed.
A HIDDEN LOVE...
He does not look at her or speak to her, and most importantly, he does not touch her. These are the rules Duncan set for himself long ago to ensure his affection for his best friend's wife remained undetected. But under the weight of a land besieged by war, the walls he erected to shield his heart crumble.
If he can earn her trust, the one woman he has always loved may at last be his. But first he must save what he cherishes most from a nightmare of dark secrets.
Destinies unfold. Secrets are revealed. The Isle of Mull will be forever changed.
Half Highlander, half Viking, Garik MacKinnon was not born on the Scottish Isle of Mull, but fostered there in his youth. Now, he leaves behind his home, once more bound for Mull, to join the MacKinnon warriors as they answer Robert the Bruce’s call to arms. He is ready for battle, eager to fight for Scotland’s freedom. What he is not prepared for is his encounter with Nellore, a shield maiden from Mull, whose allure defies all reason.
Nellore has the strength and skill of a warrior but the heart of a woman. When the men are called away to war Nellore must aid those left behind to safeguard their village against attacks from the MacLeans—a feuding clan to the south. She understands her duty to her clan. She is ready to take up arms against the enemy if need be. What she is not ready for is the ache that fills her heart when war pulls Garik from her side.
Desire ignites and battles are waged as both Nellore and Garik learn what it means to love a warrior.
Audio Books:
Flights of Love Series
She has never met a man like him before. Then again, he has never met a lad like her.
In 1802, Edinburgh’s poverty-ridden Old Town is rife with danger, but it is the only home Robbie MacKenzie has ever known. To safeguard herself against the worst villains of the street, Robbie conceals her femininity behind her shorn hair, dirt-smeared face, and tattered breeches. To all the world she is a lad, but beneath the ruse is a woman aching to break free.
Leaving his beloved Highlands behind in pursuit of his prodigal brother, Conall MacKay journeys to Edinburgh. There, he solicits the aid of a young street lad named Robbie. But Conall soon realizes that there is more to both Robbie and Edinburgh’s Old Town than meets the eye.
In a world where wickedness governs and darkness reigns, a savage struggle for dignity, survival, and love begins.
“Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”~ William Shakespeare, The Tempest
Prologue
Paris, France
June 1782
“Au revoir, salut,” Claudine Doucet said to her fellow actors as she exited the stage and made her way to the back entrance of the Théâtre du Marcais. Her farewell was met with disapproval as the revelers on stage pleaded with her to stay.
“Ma chérie, tonight was your night. All of Paris drinks to you. Why must you leave? It is not yet morning,” Luc said, peering around the curtain. She hated to disappoint everyone, especially Luc who was the first friend she had made upon her arrival alone in Paris three years before.
“I am tired, Luc. I wish to stay, but I must rest,” Claudine said as she pressed a kiss to his cheek and bid him goodnight once more.
She flung open the door and felt the rush of night air on her neck as she stepped onto the Rue de Tourigny. An irrepressible noise akin to a squeal escaped her lips as she flung her neck back and stretched her arms toward the diamond-studded sky. Decorum and the bone stays compressing her torso restricted her display of excitement, but despite outer appearances, waves of exhilaration coursed through her, chasing away her fatigue.
She had been born the daughter of a clerk in a small provincial town. Three years ago, on the eve of her fifteenth birthday, her father had knelt on the ground near her mattress and brushed a wayward lock of golden hair from her face. He had said God did not make such a beauty as she to remain cloistered among the trees and fields.
“Mon enfant,” he had said, his eyes wet with tears. “You must go and make your way in this world, for there is nothing here for you. Let Paris witness your beauty. Fall in love. You are fated for happiness—this I do not doubt, mon bijou.” My jewel.
How she wished her papa could have been in the audience that night. She closed her eyes against the ache which pushed to the fore of her emotions. She had been in Paris not even a month when she received word of his death.
“Merci, Papa,” she whispered as silent tears coursed down her cheeks. The glory of the evening returned to her, and she relived her debut performance in her mind. When the curtain fell after the final call, she had sunk to her knees and sobbed while applause still thundered from the audience. She had swum in a sea of flowers cast by admirers upon the stage. The dreams of youth had become her reality, and this realization made her heart quake.
She scanned the narrow cobbled streets rife with pedestrians and carriages. It was the strange hour where night and morning collide. Some of the passersby were dragging their tired bodies home after a long night of work. Others, more fortunate souls, were clad as she in fine silks, and were returning home after an evening spent enjoying the pleasures and excesses permitted their station in life. For many, their day had just begun as they tarried with wagons and baskets of goods or were rushing to take up their places in one of the factories. She glimpsed some rag pickers going through the streets looking for scraps of metal, glass, fabric—anything that might fetch a price. Greasy bags hung from their shoulders. They were frail, and hunger flooded their eyes with desperate yearning. She grimaced as she turned away, muttering a prayer of gratitude for her blessings. Her hands smoothed her sapphire blue silk gown over her ruffled petticoat before she stepped toward the coach that waited to bring her to her apartment.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.”
Claudine whirled around to see a tall man step from the shadows into the soft light of the street lamp. His dark eyes, filled with soft warmth, instantly entreated her trust. She felt at ease despite his being a stranger.
“Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle, but do you speak English?” he asked. His deep voice surrounded her. She puzzled over his accent.
“Oui, Monsieur. A little. But you do not sound English.”
“And for a very good reason. I am Scottish, lass, and you are lovely,” he said before taking her hand. Then he pulled her yellow glove down, sliding the silk off her fingers. His lips grazed her palm, sending currents of warmth drifting through her body.
Bowing over her hand, he said, “My name is Lord James MacKenzie.” He glanced up at her. “You were magnificent tonight,” he whispered.
Lord James MacKenzie was tall and grand, dressed impeccably in a rich velvet coat fitted to his broad shoulders, but it was not his fine attire or obvious wealth that led Claudine to accept his offered arm. His eyes laid his soul bare to her, and she lost herself to the possibility of love she glimpsed in their sterling depths.
Night began its slow retreat while Claudine and James walked along the river Seine. From Pont Neuf they welcomed the new dawn. The cobbles glimmered as the dusky shades of light caught the fine mist, which bathed the roads and bridges.
In the weeks that followed, it became their practice. James would wait for Claudine every night by the theater’s back entrance, and they would stroll the cobbled streets of Paris until the sun rose and the need for sleep could no longer be denied. With words of love on his lips, it was not long before Claudine welcomed James into her bed, and from that moment on, she belonged to him.
***
Edinburgh, Scotland
February 1784
“Please, I need a bed. S'il vous plaît, Madame. I am with child, and my time draws near. Please, take pity on us,” Claudine said, cradling her round belly. “I do not ask for charity. I can pay.” The owner of the common lodging-house, Molly, who was a handsome woman with red hair piled on top of her head, seemed to consider the coin in Claudine’s outstretched palm.
“Please, Madame,” Claudine said. A knot comprised of dread and hope filled her throat as she looked up at the woman who with a simple aye or nay could decide the future of Claudine and her unborn child.
“Nay, lass. I cannae let ye in and ye ken why. The lady whose husband gave ye that babe has forbidden it. Lady MacKenzie is a right bitch. I will not invite her vengeance. Not even for a sweet lass like yourself. Find your way home, Claudine Doucet. Ye will not find a bed in Edinburgh, nor will ye find any honest work,” Molly said. “In a few years, when the haughty cow has forgotten all about ye, then I will give ye a bed.”
Despair drained the last hope from her soul as Molly slowly eased the door shut. The wind picked up, whistling down the alley. Her arms encircled her swollen stomach, shielding her baby from the fierce cold. Black soot covered the stone buildings that lined the narrow street on both sides, making the night appear even darker. Only a strip of starless sky could she see above the rooftops that were six and seven stories high. If she could climb to stand above the filth of the surrounding slums, could she reach her arms toward heaven? And if she could, would the good Lord above save her, or would he, too, fear the wrath of Lady Eleanor MacKenzie?
Snow appeared in the air, drifting through the light of the one lamp that set aglow the far end of the street. She pulled her tattered shawl tighter about her shoulders and scrambled around the side of a nearby stairwell, seeking shelter from the snow, but as she peered beneath the stoop, a huddled mass of ragged children growled up at her, bearing their teeth like feral creatures.
She turned and ran, fleeing the alley, wishing she could flee from the world. Tears choked her breath as she sobbed her misery to the sky. There was no more hope; she had sinned too grievously. She had been foolish to try to possess that which could never be hers. Upon their arrival in Edinburgh, James had confessed that he was, indeed, a married man. She should have turned away from him then and there. She should have cursed his lies, his promises, but love had bidden her stay by his side.
Now, she raced down the street, slipping and stumbling upon the snowy cobbles. She turned onto Cowgate, a street that three months ago she would not have dared to walk down, even in the light of day. The crowded street forced her to slow her pace. She eyed the women she passed with their torn, faded gowns, their dirt-smeared faces, and hungry eyes. And then she froze and looked down at her roughened fingers and the greasy sway of her own threadbare skirt in the icy breeze. She gaped at the surrounding despair and realized the slums mirrored her own pain, her own unhappy end.
When the Lady MacKenzie had discovered her husband’s affair, she had forced James to cast her aside, but it had not ended there. His wife had not been satisfied until she had brought about the ruination of Claudine Doucet. Lady Eleanor had ensured Claudine was barred from every theater. She could not even find work as a seamstress. No inn or lodging house would take her. She was nothing now but one of countless souls who passed each night wondering if they would have to face the dawn or if hunger or cold would at last bring them peace.
“Aren’t ye a pretty bit of skirt,” an old woman said as she shuffled toward Claudine. Claudine eyed the woman warily. Her stooped shoulders were covered with the remnants of a ragged jacket. Creases lined her face, but her eyes were sharp and unwavering.
“Ye need a bed, love?” the woman asked.
Claudine nodded and dropped the last of her coin in the woman’s outstretched hand. Then Claudine followed her inside a nearby door, which opened to a stairway that descended into darkness. The old woman clasped tightly to Claudine’s fingers, leading her through unknown spaces devoid of light.
“Where do you take me?” Claudine asked, though she feared the answer.
“These are the vaults, dearie, tunnels and chambers built into the bridges. ‘Tis dark and foul, but the snow cannae reach ye down here.”
Claudine felt the crushing weight of the city above. Thick, fetid air surrounded them, consuming what little joy she still possessed.
“Here, lass,” the old woman said as she pulled Claudine into a cramped space. Claudine felt what her eyes could not see. It appeared to be a shelf with just enough room to lie down. “Ye shall rest here, and let ol’ Peggy care for ye.”
Claudine surrendered to Peggy’s comfort and laid down upon her stone bed. Steeped in darkness, she fell asleep to the moans and wails of others who slept entombed beneath the city.
That night, she dreamt of glittering light and lilting laughter, softness and perfumed breezes. She felt full and content, swathed in silk with the taste of champagne on her tongue. But then a stirring in her abdomen pulled her from the sweetness of her dreams.
“Mon Dieu,” she cried as her womb cramped and pain shot through her back.
Sweat dampened her brow. It seemed the walls were closing in on her, smothering her breath.
“There, there, lass,” Peggy said, suddenly at her side. “Do not panic. ‘Twill be done soon.”
“Non, non,” Claudine screamed. “Please, I cannot give birth to my child down here in this hell.”
“Hush now, lass. Save your strength. It makes little difference whether your child draws its first breath here or up on the streets. Either way the air is foul.”
Claudine gripped her abdomen as another pain twisted inside of her. “Either way my baby is damned,” she whispered. “Just as I am damned.”
Hours of toil passed when at last her baby’s first cry echoed through the tunnels.
“She is strong,” Peggy said. “Listen to her cry.”
Claudine strained in the darkness to see the face of her newborn babe, but she could not. “Oui, he is a strong boy,” Claudine cooed as she pressed kisses to her baby’s cheeks.
“Nay, Claudine. ‘Tis a lass. Feel for yourself. Ye have a daughter,” Peggy said.
“Listen to me, Peggy. Had I a daughter I would show her the mercy God has refused me, and I would slit her throat right here and end her suffering. The slums would feast on her and make her a whore before her body even had time to ripen. This child is a boy. Do you understand, Peggy? His name is Robbie, Robbie MacKenzie. And he will rise from this hell.” She held her child to her bosom, and whispered, “Robbie, you must fight. Fight to breathe. Fight to live. You are fated for happiness—this I do not doubt, mon bijou.” My jewel.
~ Click to read
Beautiful Darkness Series
She is the beauty and the beast, and only he can soothe her...
In Alexander MacKenzie’s youth, his clan prospered. Until one night fire and death descended, and all that was good and green fled the ensuing darkness, leaving the MacKenzie clan impoverished, and Alex's face severely scarred.
Known as the Mad Maid of Clan Ross, Cora has been imprisoned within her father's keep for a decade, but not against her will—she is her own warden. Cora locked herself away to protect those she loves from what she has become. Within the shadows that blanket their land lurk vampires and wolves. They know Cora’s savage secret and have laid claim to her body. But the fight for her soul has only just begun, and only Alex’s love can save her.